Legacy
by mako-lies
Summary: Edgar shows off his machines to Celes. She is more interested than he expects.


Beneath his fingertips, the metal warms and the screws between his teeth grow damp as he works. He sucks in a string of drool before he completely drenches them, thinks maybe he should have found somewhere else to put the screws: somewhere a little less accessible but more likely to keep them dry and safe than clenched in his teeth, but he turns his focus back to the engine. It's been running poorly lately, grinding and stuttering where it should be smooth. In a way, the sounds are its way of calling out for help, he thinks, grinning. The screws nearly fall out. Edgar pulls away from the engine, takes the screws from his mouth, then dries them with the hem of his shirt.

He sets them aside, then picks up one of his tools so he can begin pulling apart the engine, to see exactly where things have gone awry, when he hears footsteps on the stairs. "Hello?" he calls, certain he had told no one to bother him unless there was an emergency.

Celes steps into view, still wearing her white cape and her face red with sunburn.

"They told me you were here," she says, unfastening the pin on her cape, setting aside the garment onto a nearby table. "I apologize if now is a bad time for you."

"Not at all, though mayhap you would prefer to go somewhere else?" he asks, grimacing at the tacky taste of metal that lingers in his mouth.

She shakes her head, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside his workbench. Her eyes shut as she sucks in a breath, eyelashes light against the scarlet of her skin. A moment passes in which he thinks mayhap she is waiting for him to say something, but if it is one thing Celes is comfortable with, it is the silence and his fingers itch for the complexity of the engine.

He doubts, somehow, that she will begrudge him the opportunity to get his hands dirty.

As he works, the machines he's not elbows deep in hum around him, like living things, and he can only smile—because here is proof, if nothing else, of his contribution to Figaro. This is his legacy. While his political contributions might be lost to the sands, and his aid in saving the world might dissipate to legend, this machine will be the physical proof of his life.

"Was there something you needed, Celes?" he asks, as he pulls back to wipe the trickle of sweat from his brow.

When he turns to look at her, she has her sheathed sword laying flat across her lap. "I was in the area and needed to rest my chocobo," she tells him, lifting one shoulder in a shrug and opening her eyes to survey him, "I thought, also, I might say hello."

The last is said with a tightening of her grip on the hilt of her sword, knuckles excessively pale against her sunburn. Edgar smiles at her discomfort, half to put her at ease, half because few would ever have thought an ex-General like she to be so easily embarrassed. "We could go up to the castle proper. Hiding in the basement like rats is hardly a welcome befitting a lady such as yourself."

"I prefer it here," she says, her voice low, her fair gaze sweeping over the product of his labor.

He pauses, unsure of what to say to her. People rarely come into his engine-room, into his workshop, and engage with him in his space. Usually he has to go out and interact with others on their terms, as is his duty as a ruler. The only people who ever came in here were Sabin and, a few times, Setzer. Celes has never expressed interest in either himself or machinery before, admiring him and his tools only for their use in battle, it seemed. To be fair, she is nothing if not utilitarian, and he cannot begrudge her that, given her background. "Have they given you aloe?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow.

Edgar wants to be charming, he wants to be interesting and suave, but here in his own space, he is what he is, his fingers oil-slick and sweat dripping down his face. This has been his place since his father died, the only space of privacy and sanctuary. The only place where no one had any expectations of him. "No," she says, "Please continue. I am fine here."

There are questions he wants to ask as her eyes flutter shut again, but he does not, simply turns back to the engine, to this machine he built, even though kings and princes shouldn't get their hands dirty with such common work, even though he had responsibilities and should have been playing state rather than playing with toys. He finds, as he continues deconstructing the engine, that there's sand in there. How someone managed to get sand lodged in his machinery—he'll need to talk to the staff again about not coming in here. This whole engine will have to be gutted, he realizes, looking at it. Edgar stands and finds a cloth, so that he can clean everything out, then put it all together again.

"You're sure you're not bored? Hungry? Tired?" he asks without looking at her as he resumes his task of taking apart the machine.

"Yes," she says and he hears her shift. "Would you like me to leave?"

Edgar blows a strand of hair out of his face. "Not at all, I'm glad for the company. How have you been?"

"…Well enough. What of you?"

"Good," he says, pauses long enough to lift out one of the filters, "Terra's bringing the kids to stay here. She's… adjusting, you know, to the… How are you adjusting? I know that you went out looking for magicite. Have you found anything?"

She blows out a long sigh. "I did not, in fact. It seems that, too, ceased to be with Kefka's demise. I thought as much, but we could ill afford not to look."

Her answer does not answer his first question, but he supposes that is not such a surprise. Celes has been reticent as long as he has known her. "…So what will you do now?"

"I don't know," she says, her voice low, and he turns to look at her then, to find her watching him intently. "Mayhap I'll travel, or find a place to stay. I… have nothing to fall back upon. I do not know which direction to take now that…"

She stops, shaking her head, and she meets his gaze with all the calmness he has come to associate her, and he hates to compare her to the smooth ice of Narshe, but it comes to mind anyway. "You have us," he says, before he can stop himself and give an answer that sounds less—cliche, less like he's trying to mend her wounds with friendship, because people aren't simple like machines, you cannot simply clear the experiences out like sand and expect everything to run smoothly again.

"I do."

Her eyes shut again and he thinks that she smiles, so he returns to working, but she hasn't answered the question of why she is here, in his workshop, and it distracts him, because most people have no interest in the nitty-gritty of his building. They have interest in the product, rarely the process. "Celes," he says, turning to look at her again, her hair tumbling over her shoulder, "Why in here? I hadn't thought you had any real love of technology."

"…They told me you were down here and that I should wait until you were finished, but… I spent quite a lot of time in Cid's workshop, growing up. This is… familiar. I am sorry to have made you ill at ease, however," she stands in a rustle of cloth, her expression shuttered, her shoulders squared.

Edgar rises too, setting aside his tools, and then turns to face her. "No, no, no. You misunderstand me. It was curiosity that drove my question. I don't mind if you watch me work, but… Have you tried looking for Cid? It's possible he—"

"No," Celes says, her mouth twisting, "He died a year after the Cataclysm."

He gawks at her for a moment, steps nearer to buy himself time to collect the pieces of his composure. "…When did you learn of this?"

"I was there when it happened. I spent a year in a coma. The only reason I did not die outright was because he cared for me. However, he died of illness not long after I awoke. There was nothing… We were stranded on an island, far away from any help," she bows her head, the curtain of her hair shielding her face, and Edgar wants to reach out to her, but knows better.

"…I'm sorry. It sounds like you cared for him a great deal."

She nods. "…Yes. Thank you."

They fall back into platitudes and duty, because he is king and she was a General, and they know everything of regulation and structure. But he—he understands. Cid was the closest thing she had to a father in those long years with the Empire and he is gone now. He remembers what it was like, after his father died and his brother left and he was alone: and he can see that reflected in Celes, in the loss of Cid and mayhap even her separation from Terra.

If listening to the hum of his machines soothes her grief, he will not deny her. After all, it served much a similar purpose for him. "Would you like to learn?" he asks, the question out of his mouth before he can stop it.

"…To build?" she asks, tilting her head to the side, the curtain of her hair falling over one shoulder. "I have no experience in creation. In addition, I would not wish to cause you any inconvenience."

Edgar shakes his head, smiling. "That's why it would be learning. You wouldn't have to have any prior experience, I'd show you everything you needed to know. And it wouldn't be an inconvenience. I'd like to show you."

When his father died, he had needed distance from his father's shoes, from his father's seat, from everything his father had been been. Edgar had needed something for himself, something to focus on that was not his duty to his country. And machinery had been a way of staying sane, will simultaneously creating something that helped the country. However, Celes has had nothing but distance from Cid. She has had no way in which to feel close to him, especially considering the loss of the magick he had injected into her veins. Edgar cannot do much for her, but he can give her this closeness, this opportunity to get elbow deep in something that reminds her of the man who could have been her father.

"Very well," she says, inclining her head.

And she steps forward and Edgar cannot help but think that he's glad to have her here, in this space where he cannot hide.


End file.
